Dead Hearts
by iamthewordshaker
Summary: He's not your Dave, but you think you can learn to love him nonetheless.


Time doesn't pass normally in the dream bubbles. One minute you're trudging through the memories of your death; the next you're bittersweetly reunited with (most of) your friends.

There are a few Daves here, nothing surprising, but they aren't from your timeline. There are a lot of trolls here, too, and for some reason, this Karkat isn't nearly as angry as you remember him being. He's god tier, unlike you, but still so very dead. He stands close to a girl in Derse pajamas—there are a lot of them, but he seems fond of her, even as she nestles close and smiles to herself and waves to you—and does a lot less angry shouting as, well, _useful _shouting. He's discussing something about the game, dynamics or where they went wrong or prototyping, and one of the Daves snarks at him. They start bickering like children and it feels... right, oddly enough, that these two, the Knights, one a god and the other simply _not the right Dave_, argue back and forth with increasing frustration.

You've talked to a few of the other trolls—the one wearing _underwear_, his horns practically mowing over anyone in his way—and the guy in puffy pantaloons with a sneer on his face (the one that softens around that happy fish-chick), but you haven't quite managed to find another you yet, which you assume is a good sign.

You're standing on the dock with two Daves, one clad in a red suit and the other in green felt, and above you the angry sneer-y troll is arguing with the 3D-glasses troll (honestly, there are so many of them, how can you be expected to know their names). They're bickering back and forth when red-suited Dave snaps at them to keep it down and suddenly he's brought into the argument as well.

"Sup, Egbert," says the one standing next to you, inclining his head slightly. You know him well enough—you know him _so so well_, or you knew him, and it dawns on you yet again that this isn't your Dave and you are not his John.

"Do you think they'll win?" you blurt out with your typical tact.

He stares at you—you know that look, it's when he's arguing with himself to either lie or tell the truth, which probably means the truth isn't all that nice—and snorts. "Yeah, man. I didn't die a hundred fucking times to lose."

There's a hint of bitterness in his voice—always is, with these Daves, because they know somewhere they fucked up—but there's no tension in his shoulders, no lines between his brows.

"So, you're the big hero? You save us all with your shitty swords and dumb raps?" Your grin softens the words.

He pretends to look offended and says, "Well, _someone's _gotta do the work around here, and it looks like it's gonna be me."

You grin turns a bit crooked at that and he smiles in return; it's startling, it's still _Dave_, and you desperately miss kissing him.

"Did we ever—?" You worry your lip and scrunch up your eyebrows, like you're thinking a lot, but you're really not because it's just memories turning vague and feeling lost all over again. "In your universe, were we—friends?"

"What? Of course we were. Two peas in a pod, amigos, you're the Bert to my Ernie—"

"The Jodie Foster to my Matthew McConaughey?"

"I—oh."

You laugh, a little awkwardly, try to brush it off like it's nothing. He stares at you, his lips still pursed in a perfect o, but you don't really regret it. Hell, you're _dead_. And as long as the game goes on, you'll be stuck here. With everyone else, and with all these Daves, and there's no point dwelling on the one you've lost.

You hope wherever he is, he's kicking ass.

"I'm glad at least oneof us stopped beating around the bush to, y'know, concentrate on your bush instead—"

"Dave, that's _gross_!"

"—stop fighting with a sword and start playing tonsil hockey—"

"Dave!"

"—rest long enough to do the horizontal tango—"

"Oh my God."

"—do some bedroom rodeo—"

"You're such an ass."

"—get around to porking—"

"_Stop_."

"—put your pocket rocket in my badonkadonk—"

"I give up."

"—last one, I promise: Zillywoo my Caledscratch."

"That didn't make sense," you dismiss, "and besides, we didn't actually have sex."

He shrugs. "Don't ruin my fun, Egbert."

"You're so _dumb_ sometimes." You're a few seconds away from laughing, though, and even though his poker face is back in place, you can _tell_ he's about to burst out laughing. At his own jokes. Before you can comment on it, you realize you looked over a very crucial admittance from him.

"Wait, you _do_ have feelings for me? Or your John. Does that mean all the Daves—?"

He shrugs again, trying to make it as nonchalant as possible. "I talked to one that seemed to be crushing pretty hard on Terezi. Another doomed timeline, so I guess it just... depends." He looks at you for a little bit and quietly says, "I'm pretty jealous of your Dave."

It takes you all of seven seconds to kiss him. It's a little like you kiss with your Dave, awkward and teeth-clanging and just so very characteristic of two teenage boys, but you've had experience now and he hasn't, and you know to touch his waist while he stands there dumbfounded.

When you pull away, his glasses are askew and his face is slightly pink.

"Does that mean you're cheating on me with me?" he says, breathless, and you shove his arm lightly.

"Do you not want me to—"

"No, no, that's—you keep doing that." He swallows and touches your face, like he can't believe you're doing this, like he thought he'd never get the chance, and you slip his glasses off when you kiss him for the second (seventh, really, taking all Daves into account, by which you mean this Dave and your Dave) time.

He makes a little breathless sound, one you're very familiar with, and he's smiling before even he realizes it. You put his glasses back on and think that being dead isn't a complete waste.

"We do have some time to kill," he offers, and you grin, except—

"What is _that_?"

Whatever it is, it's caught everyone's attention, descending from the sky and heading towards the quest bed, brilliantly flashing lights and colors.

It looks like—a coffin, maybe? But it's—

"It's him," he says, face paling. "It's _him_, John, it's fucking him."

And it is him, an obscene green monster, and panic swells in your stomach even though nothing can go wrong, _you've already died_, no more harm can be done.

But Dave's pulling at your sleeve and hisses, "We need to leave."

And you try.

You do.

Everyone seems to get the idea, that _this guy means business so get the hell out of Dodge_, and how can you honestly expect to win against this thing—guy—creature, whatever he is, and Dave's hand is clutching yours in a vice grip and his face turns to absolute panic and someone screams and—

A flash of light, and you can't escape it, and you feel Dave crushing himself against you and _they have to win they have to win they have to win for us they have to beat him because we never did—_

But you're already gone.


End file.
